


Operation F.R.O.S.T (Fuck Reason; Override Sane Thoughts)

by defenestratedplayboi



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23861962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defenestratedplayboi/pseuds/defenestratedplayboi
Summary: Tony vents to a friend about a fling he had with Loki, before he even knew it was Loki. He likes to drown his problems in things that might kill him and who is he to deny the pair of legs holding a scepter that might just do the trick? A good lay and potential death? Yes please. Formation of strings in what was always meant to be a NSA agreement. Tony's POV.Screw the unfortunate events of Endgame, we're gonna pretend everyone's still kicking mkay?
Relationships: Loki/Tony Stark
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Operation F.R.O.S.T (Fuck Reason; Override Sane Thoughts)

Mental illness is a funny little thing. See, sometimes you want to die. Every never in your body is screaming "Here are 6 different ways to end this right here right now and feel no pain." Your logical brain is tossed out the window and you engage in…ahem…reckless behavior to hasten the process a bit. Sometimes, you just want someone to hear you out. You just want an ear, no advice, no armchair talk from a not that type of doctor, just someone to blindly nod and tell you you'll be ok. There are times where all you need is a good distraction. See I've historically turned to erm…substances. Being a rich kid in New York with no parents, I've done my fair share of shit I wouldn't want my lawyer to know about. And the booze…shit the booze. I have the means to import the finest shit from the finest places that you can't afford with all the money you will ever amass in your lifetime. Or sometimes I turn to a cheap bottle of Jack and call it a day, though those days are usually the eye openers that make me stop for a bit before I pick right back up. 

More often, I turn to sex. As grand as I am, even I have insecurities and being inadequate has always been one of them. No, no, I can assure you I am quite the adequate lover. I can navigate a woman like a California mountain road. I just…don't think I can be there emotionally. After a few one night stands, she'll start to tell me about her life and how her sister just got married and now she has baby fever and how Shelly from Accounting kept her from getting promoted to Chief Records Clerk or some bull. So then I tune out, because I start to care too much. I start suggesting that I might have enough pull in whatever industry to chastise Shelly from Accounting and get this gorgeous brunette or redhead or whatever, promoted quickly. I start to think I can solve all her problems and that her company will solve mine. Then her fear of abandonment comes out when she's crying at my lab door, begging me to come to bed. Shut up, I'm almost done with this! Why don't women ever seem to get that? 

I've had one or two long term relationships. The most obvious being with the woman who is now above me professionally. I loved her. I loved her too much. The first time she left, she should have left for good. I'm toxic. I'm like a virus who will disguise itself as something harmless then take over every cell in your body and nothing you do will get rid of it. She stayed for the sex, or so I like to tell myself. I think she started to care too. Maybe she's the reason I didn't die when I had the chance. She had small hands, that's it, she fished out the core, helped you replace it that one time, bam, you're alive, I tell myself. I know that if left to my own devices, I would have accepted death the first time it came calling. Then I tried to solve her problems like they were broken circuits put in front of me. I guess that's not how people work. 

Flings are endless. I've never been insecure about my sexuality, but I've been advised by my attorneys to keep it to myself. If the world found out that Iron Man once had the hots for Star Spangled Briefs, there would be outrage. Honestly, anyone with a sex drive would want to pile drive that. Again, I got too attached, sort of got a little unhinged when Buckaroo returned from the dead, a messy break up ensued and bam, we are no longer on speaking terms. More like…emergency walkie talkie communication forced by events beyond our control. We talk when we have to, but I obviously still care about him as a friend and as a person. He stays in D.C and hits me up when the team needs a hand and I reciprocate the sentiment. We're on professional communication through burner phones terms, keeping up appearances on the team group chat so Natasha doesn't get the get along shirt…again. 

Whatever, enough about Rogers. What was I going on about? Right, rutting away problems instead of discussing them. The Fling of The Century™. This fling, though…it's one for the ages. Alright so when I'm bored and the sort of attention that my friends won't give me, I throw parties. Something about seeing Natasha in a skimpy little number…anyway. I made up some excuse to throw a house party, as those are necessary in adult life I guess, and invited socialites from all over. There was this cute chick from Dubai, said to be royalty, sure as hell dressed like it. Turns out she was oil royalty and her daddy would've had my head if I even thought about taking out that little white tube dress. Too risky, I told myself. Come on, man, you're pushing 50 here! End of life crisis? Fuck! I continued kissing strangers who tasted of Chanel and champagne. Eventually, I decided to go off to the balcony and secretly hope I was drunk enough to "stumble" over the edge, something dramatic that would leave a mark. I saw…something surreal taking selfies with New York as a backdrop. She looked…stunning…just radiant with the moonlight bouncing off her long, black curls, the satin of her mermaid gown gave off this old Hollywood glow. "Balenciaga?" I asked as I approached, her, eyeing her gown and the taffeta detailing at the bottom of the skirt. 

"Yes. 1951." She replied in a vague accent. Her eyes never left her phone screen as she continued to pose for Instagram. "Here," She demanded, handing me her phone. "I need to show this gown off. I was not informed that the dress code was cocktail, so I apologize for being a bit overdressed. I am accustomed to Stark throwing white tie parties, not…whatever this is" She rolled her eyes as she posed against the railing. I held her phone, stunned at her brash tone and attitude. 

"Do you know who I-"  
"Everyone and their dead grandmother knows who you are, darling. Now be a dear and take the picture so I can get out of here" She winked as she continued to pose, taking the phone from me after a few more shots. "The lowlight on this is horrendous. This is why I stick to Apple." She smirked as she threw the latest model of the Stark Industries attempt at branching out into long lasting battery life phones, over the balcony railing. I stared at her in disbelief.  
"That…I am not getting you another one just because you're cute!" I scoffed as I turned to leave. She came up behind me and wrapped her hands around my waist. 

"You're not?" She purred. "Hmm…what happened to the philanthropist in ya? What if I told you I'm an Instragram model with millions of followers? Who could make or break your reputation?"

"Oh so one of those bloggers then? Not a real reporter?" I laughed. "Hun, then this party is a little…above your tax bracket. I specified socialites not wannabes." I smirked and shook her off me. I headed to the bar and hopped over to make myself a drink. She appeared at a bar stool, directly in front of me on the other side of the bar, right where I was going to sit once I finished mixing myself a drink. 

"Then I suppose the Avengers are socialites?" She teased, mixing her drink with her gloved finger. "They don't strike me as the…born into money type. New money I suppose?" She smirked before bringing the drink to her lips and frowning. "Really, Stark. Your taste in liquor mimics your taste in clothes. Armani? What are you? A millionaire?"

"Tom Ford." I hissed, hopping over the bar discreetly. "And what have you got against my booze. That right there is Mezcal from Oaxaca. One of the finest, if not the finest in the world!" I rolled my eyes and sat next to her. "How did an Instagram model land a 1951 Balenciaga anyway? Isn't that collection housed at the Met?"

"Hmm. I know my way around the curators." She shrugged. "Even the Met needs a social media boost every now and again."

"Did you hear about that heist?" I asked, raising a brow. "Did you hear who took down the villain?"  
She laughed, throwing her head back dramatically. 

"I suppose your antics are meant to impress me?" She mused, finishing her drink. "You do not know me, Stark. It will take a little more than a fight that left you with a broken collarbone to impress me." I stared at her in disbelief. I could have sworn only the person who broke my collarbone in the first place and I knew what happened. I tend to keep my battle scars away from the press, unless I want to use them for dramatic effect. I smirked and slid to the other side of the bar to make her another drink. 

"What's your name, doll?" I asked, mixing her a Manhattan, throwing in a few tricks with the shaker to try and get any sort of reaction from her. 

"Do names even matter?" She batted her eyelashes before pulling her gloves off and daintily placing them in her purse. "We both know how this is going to end. We will drink your supply of top shelf liquor, you will fuck me senseless, I will pick up my clothes and leave you in the middle of the night. If you are a smart man, this is how it will end." She took the drink I mixed for her, taking a sip and nodding. "You will not get attached and you will never see me again. It will be a night of mutual pleasure, and I will spare you your reputation." I blankly nodded, trying to play it cool. 

"Right uh. So. Penthouse?" I stammered. For a stranger to make me shut up…damn…who was this woman? She laughed and shook her head. 

"Please. I am not nearly drunk enough to see you naked." She winked and downed her drink . I frowned and poured myself a drink. 

"And I'm not nearly drunk enough to forget you~" I handed her a shot of tequila and watched her down it with a smirk. 

"Whatever. Take me to your penthouse. I am sure an old man like you cannot stay up too long past his bedtime." 

What the hell was I supposed to do? Ignore her? I humbly obliged. I mean, you don't just leave a gal like that wanting!

**Author's Note:**

> found this in my saved notes from literally 5 years ago? Edited to keep with the times. Idk how many chapters it'll have but soon, I'll get to finishing at least Ch 2. IT'S BEEN A WHILE literally a really long while since I've done this but hey I'm back.


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